It’s graduation season. Famous people are out making commencement speeches and images of bright shiny students in their caps and gowns populate the evening news. Job prospects for new college graduates aren’t the best, but that’s not stopping people from crossing the stage to pick up their diplomas. The truth is, even in a recession, it’s hard to tell a graduation story without talking about hope. Graduations are about endings. True. But mostly they’re about beginnings. And beginnings are about hope.

I work in the business of hope, of endings and beginnings. I work with refugees. Like graduates leaving campus, refugees resettling to other countries hug their friends and say goodbye. They clean out the temporary places they’ve called home and pack up their belongings. They think about what they’ve come through and they dream about where they’re headed. They hope.

A few years ago, I was escorting refugees from Nairobi to Newark. The first leg is a night flight, so most people sleep. But the second is a day flight and that means a lot of activity. With a bunch of kids and a few infants coupled with adult refugees who were unfamiliar with airplane amenities like seat belts and sealed meals, I had my hands full. And that was before dealing with the crew. The flight attendants were surly, visibly frustrated with the lack of sophistication of several rows of refugee passengers. They weren’t so fond of me either. Why wasn’t I doing more to keep them quiet or their rows clean?

I stood near the galley for most of the flight, rocking babies to sleep while helping one kid after another use the rest room and wash their hands. The flight attendants and I spent a lot of quality time together. We talked about why these people had fled home, the decades they’d spent in camps in Tanzania and how continued trouble in Burundi prevented a return. The flight attendants relaxed.

When the captain announced that we had entered US airspace, I asked the crew to come with me. The group of Burundians took off their headphones and looked away from the in-flight movie to hear what I had to say. I told them to lift their shades and look out, that what they saw below them was America. The Burundians celebrated with cheers and hugs and laughter. They pressed their hands and faces against the small thick windows. They pointed and showed their kids their new home.

The flight attendants? They cried. So did I.

Part of what makes these moments so moving is the genuine and uninhibited expression of hope. Such earnestness is disarming and grants us momentary reprieve from our cynical selves. We are reminded of our own hopes, of the times when everything seemed possible. I’m pretty lucky to work in a field where I frequently encounter such reminders. The lingering effects of repeated exposure to public displays of hope probably make me appear a little naïve to the rest of the world, but I’m learning to be cool with that.